I am a big manly man.

I am a big manly man. I am master of my own universe and I am not afraid to admit it.

When I purchased my sexy rusting hunk of American steel and dubbed her Godzilla in May of this year, I knew I was on to something. You see, the girl has no computer to speak of. No brain outside of my own to guide her and keep her gassed up and roaring down my city's streets. For the yet uninitiated, Godzilla is my '76 International Scout II (back in the 70's they named automobiles like the 10's do movie sequels) and she is rusty, stinky, and temperamental. I had taken her top off for the summer because she looks much better topless.

Topless... uh huh
Topless... uh huh

Some would say she is ugly, but the truth is, they just fail to see the beauty. In any case, she has been stubbornly sitting dormant in front of our house for over a month. She has literally had cobwebs appear in between her rear axle. Not just a few, but dozens. That is how long she has been sitting topless outside of our house. Now normally I don't consider having topless ladies at my house a problem, but it would soon become a big problem.

This coming Thursday (October 10th) is one of Arizona's six rainy days we get each year. Without a top, she's going to really get wet and what I do not need right now with her is yet another reason for her to be pissed off. So I resolved to fix what ails her or failing that, have some friends help me push her into the garage so she doesn't get rained on.

 Be sexy... go topless

Be sexy... go topless

I replaced the fuel filter, most of the fuel lines, the fuel pump, and the starter/solenoid. All by myself and for a surprisingly low sum of money. All told about $142. However, to be fair I also spent about eight total hours doing all of that so the time outlay was substantially greater.

Before all of that work was put into the truck, it just flat out refused to start up. It would crank and growl and even chug a little bit if I sprayed some starter fluid into the carburetor, but then it would die a second later.

As of last night at precisely 9:32PM (sorry neighbors...), after working on her for five nonconsecutive nights, she sputtered and chugged and roared back to life when I inserted the key and pressed the accelerator. It nearly brought tears to my eyes. Actually it kind of did bring tears to my eyes. The accumulated dust from the hood, dash and flat surfaces in general whipped up and blew into my face as I laid the hammer down and took off down the street, so literally making me weep. Or water. Since there was no crying involved. Let me rephrase, dust in my eyes made my eyes water. I wasn't crying. I WASN'T!... Shut up.

For me, having only taken a basic automotive class in college twenty or so years ago, it was a glorious moment. It was a gas-soaked, bloody knuckled, greasy manly moment. I felt empowered. I felt strong. I felt like I was... master of my universe.

 Oh and Nature... I conquered that too.

Oh and Nature... I conquered that too.

I had conquered machinery and it's feeble attempts to thwart my masculine power. I had flexed my muscles and brought down the fury of fire to bend this hunk of steel to my will. I took a ten minute joyride, showing the world how awesome I was now that I had tamed Godzilla and had her under my control. People were impressed. They may not have verbalized it, which is understandable, it would have set many a jaw agape at the scene of awesomeness. Rather than measuring by the number of words spoken, it would be better to measure it by the amount of drool dribbled on my route that day. Probably more than an ounce or two even.

I ventured out to the Circle K and gassed her up (girls are always more entertaining gassy after all) and went to the manly Fry's supermarket. I purchased a tub of Red Vines (What? The tub is the BEST!) and Doritos, because oil soaked hands add just that right amount of flavor to the nacho cheese flavoring. I then drove home to my wife.

I told her of the manliness of her husband. I told her I had conquered machinery, and I was now going to kill things because that's what real men do. The virtual world was in for a treat tonight. I told her that after making machinery my slave, and fake massacring people in Hitman, she was my next target. Target of some sweet sweet lovin' because... I am a big manly man. That's what we do.

She chuckled and kissed me.

So I make a statement today that I am a big manly man and I do manly things because that's what we manly men do. Do not doubt it. I take what I want, I fix what is broken, and I eat.

In the interest of full disclosure... I may have done a lot of that fixing without cause. (Two gallons from a gas can works miracles in an empty tank.) But no matter! I am a man. I have the grease under my nails to prove it.